


Tortoise and Hare

by Katsuko



Series: Feminine Wiles [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: F/M, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female Presenting Aziraphale, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Pre-Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 16:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20067382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katsuko/pseuds/Katsuko
Summary: It's difficult to read between the lines... but worth it for a bit of hope.





	Tortoise and Hare

**Author's Note:**

> And this is the third part of my female presenting Aziraphale works that I've finished. I've got a couple thoughts in mind for more, but nothing committed to anything beyond my brain just yet. This part takes place in 1967, so y'all probably know what's coming next.

It’s probably a really stupid idea to meet with his potential crew in Soho.

Scratch that, it _is _a really stupid idea to meet up in Soho, even if this isn’t exactly anywhere near a certain bookshop. People talk, criminals especially like to talk amongst themselves, and a certain angel isn’t exactly stupid even if she does pretend at times to be oblivious.

But… well, part of this might just be, on his part, a cry for attention.

It's not as if Crowley _hasn’t_ seen Aziraphale since that whole thing with the Nazis and the exploding church, but they haven’t really done more than exchange pleasantries and take their own fair part in the Arrangement. Point of fact, the angel had popped off to Constantinople to do a quick temptation whilst she already had a minor miracle to perform in the city. Or was it Istanbul now? He can’t keep track of these sort of things, and he sort of remembers her rolling her eyes at him in mild exasperation when he was calling it the former. Maybe it _is _Istanbul?

Whatever, the point of the matter is, they still see one another. They still speak, and it’s… nice. It’s really nice, honestly, and while he _may_ have slept away about a decade of their eighty year break-up (for lack of a better term) he had truly missed their covert lunch dates. But there’s still a strain there, and it’s entirely to do with his request for insurance in 1862 and Aziraphale’s outright refusal.

Crowley can’t even really chalk that up to the angel being effectively _male _at the time of their argument and being _female _now. He’s fairly certain that if he asked Aziraphale for holy water now she would firmly tell him _no _again and, probably, throw him out of the bookshop and her life entirely. And that’s the very last thing he wants.

An adversary for nearly six thousand years is something like a friend, right? Right, even if maybe, secretly, he would prefer for their relationship to be something else entirely.

Hence this heist he’s setting up. It’s better to ask for his angel’s forgiveness after the fact that to run the risk of refusal and an enraged Principality for a second time.

The meet goes well, even if that Shadwell character was an unexpected arrival, and now Crowley may possibly have to find some way to keep a sodding witchfinder, whatever the heaven _that _is, out of his hair in the long term; perhaps he’ll hire the poor bastard on somehow? Can’t be much work for his lot with there being no real witches in England anymore. The follow-up conversation with the man provides just enough of a distraction that he doesn’t even notice angelic grace until he’s already slid into the Bentley and shut the door.

The sudden _awareness _draws his gaze to his left, where Aziraphale is sitting primly in the passenger seat. She’s peering through the windscreen, as if she’s simply waiting for him to start the engine so they can proceed to whatever destination they’ve decided on. Her gaze shifts to him for a moment before she looks ahead once more, and Crowley notes in an absent sort of way that she’s changed her hair again. Just last month she was still pulling it up into a messy bun, but now it’s in what he _thinks _the humans are calling a crown braid now. There are still, as always, a few rampant curls lying loose around her forehead and ears, but that’s just his angel: put together yet still a bit disheveled.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer. It’s why he did this here in the first place after all, but even so, it’s not like he expected her to just _pop up in his car_ to have it out.

“I work in Soho,” Aziraphale says evenly; _I live in Soho _goes unsaid but is understood, “and I hear things. Crowley, surely you know the risks. This whole thing, it’s dangerous for you to try.”

The demon bites back on a sigh; of course, she’s still angry about it after all this time. “You made your opinion clear one hundred and five years ago.”

“And I haven’t changed my mind,” she retorts, but her words are gentle. “I haven’t changed my mind… but I can’t let you go through with it.” Crowley takes in a breath, gearing up to argue, but Aziraphale is reaching down beside her. She comes up with a tartan thermos, the pattern a perfect match to the scarf she has wrapped loosely around her neck, clasping it carefully and hesitating for a moment before holding it out to him.

_Oh, _he thinks, then _oh, angel._ It’s both the hardest and easiest thing in the world to reach out and take it from her hands, fingers brushing against hers for only an instant. Then he’s just… glancing back over at her, shock and awe overwhelming him for a moment.

“Don’t go unscrewing the cap,” Aziraphale says softly, and she looks oddly resigned and a little guilty. He wonders why, and it’ll be over five decades before he realizes that he never actually _told her_ what he intended to use it for should push come to shove.

“After everything you said?” he asks, his own voice low and full of wonder. _I love you, _he thinks, not for the first time and not for the last, but probably more intently than he’s thought it in some few years. _I love you I love you thank you I love you. _“S'this is the real thing?”

“The holiest.”

And oh, _oh, _he’s completely done for. If there was ever a chance for him to ignore the almost overwhelming love he feels for this angel, a love that’s been there ever since the Garden, it’s dead and buried forever now. _Aziraphale herself _blessed the water in this thermos, it’s _her _grace and faith powering it, and if that’s not a declaration of the deepest, most true love then… well, he’s not sure what that means.

“Should I say ‘thank you’?”

“Better not.”

Crowley takes a moment to breathe, to try and keep his emotions from pouring out of him before speaking. “Can I drop you off somewhere?”

The angel breathes in. “No thank you. Oh, please don’t give me that look,” she adds when he feels his face shift into a frown. “Perhaps one day we can, I don’t know,” here she pauses a moment, glances about them before looking his way again, “go on a picnic. Maybe dine at the Ritz.”

There’s something in her blue eyes, something that seems to say _it’s dangerous _and _I adore you _and _I can’t yet I can’t please._

“I’ll give you a lift,” Crowley tries one more time, desperately, “anywhere you wanna go.”

_Please, I love you, let me love you._

Aziraphale is still looking at him, and there is a hint of tears in her eyes. “You go too fast for me, Crowley,” she says, and her words…

Her words aren’t a _no._

He hears _I’m sorry _and _I’m not ready _and _please wait for me _and _someday, _but he doesn’t hear _no, _he doesn’t hear _I don’t love you, _he doesn’t hear _never._

Crowley watches in silence as his angel opens the door and steps out of the Bentley, closes it behind her, starts walking down the street in the direction of her bookshop. He watches until she’s lost in the crowd, then turns his gaze back to the gift she handed to him so easily despite her fear of what he may do with it.

He has spent the better part of the past three thousand years trying to tell Aziraphale how much he loves the angel with actions. With one selfless act of her own, Crowley feels hopeful for the first time that maybe, someday, they’ll be on the same page at last.

He sets the holy water to one side carefully and starts up the Bentley. He will call off the heist, he will put this gift in a safe, secure place… and then? He’ll wait for his angel. He’ll wait forever if he has to.

(He won't have to.)

**Author's Note:**

> They're so soft, aren't they?


End file.
